The Letter, after Jack Vettriano

There sleeps a woman without color, possessing a light she has almost let go.

She is giving up.

Her right hand closely held a letter that now falls to the floor.

Her left hand offers cigarette smoke; vapors, rough but sweet.

She rests, body sinking into the mattress.

Her sandals strap her feet, wearing them for the last time.

Her family waits and watches over her from the painting above her bed.

Still life.